Only a bird
In its wings were African skies.
Its eyes dark glimmers of the Northern sea.
The dust of Spain had brushed against its claws.
Stains on its beak; some sweet, Moroccan tree.
Yet there it was, perched on a bin,
Small as a pin drop, tiny as a star.
Watching the rush and trammel of the street,
endlessly looping cafe, litter, car…
And then it sang. Nobody heard.
Only a bird, invisible as air,
Singing the song of hedgerows and of hills,
of rivers winding, slowly, slowly, there.